


Birds

by Snellby



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snellby/pseuds/Snellby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Running from the warmth of the desert and into the claws of such a depraved city had left ten year old Damian Wayne reeling.  He’d known that Gotham was a pitiful place–consumed by crime and greed–but he had never imagined how completely its darkness had spread.  Everything was infected.  Diseased.  Adjusting was...difficult, to put it lightly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds

 

Gotham was always cold and damp; thick, heavy clouds blocking out the sun, gloom hanging over the tall, decrepit buildings. It was an awful place, sorrow bleeding from its very foundations, washing through the streets to fester in the sewers.

Running from the warmth of the desert and into the claws of such a depraved city had left ten year old Damian Wayne reeling. He’d known that Gotham was a pitiful place–consumed by crime and greed–but he had never imagined how _completely_ its darkness had spread. Everything was _infected. Diseased._ Adjusting was...difficult, to put it lightly.

 

* * *

 

Graphite shushed across paper, leaving a long, dark trail of lead in its wake. Another line, another attempt to release the beasts rolling around in his mind. Damian smudged the new mark with his ring finger, shading deliberately, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Nights in the manor were lonely and quiet; a good time for thinking, he supposed...however, Damian didn’t like being left alone with his own mind. He didn’t like being left to contemplate the dark thoughts creeping along the edges of his consciousness, or the evil that had taken root in his brain and flourished beneath his mother’s care. He had grown to despise that part of him...the part that fit in so well with the rest of Gotham’s denizens. He couldn’t... _wouldn’t_ be like them...and someday–perhaps–he would earn his father’s respect.

He watched as the man himself glided silently past his open door, footsteps light and catlike. Bruce Wayne moved like a wraith when out of the public eye, ghosting about the manor, barely more than another memory. Unlike the uncouth playboy he pretended to be–in order to preserve his identity–the man rarely spoke, using what words he _did_ release sparingly. Their conversations were few and far between, and Damian found himself spending more and more time locked away in his own room, taking up his father‘s reclusive habits.

However, tonight, the boy had other plans.

“Let me go with you.” Damian demanded, cutting the man off before he reached his study (where Damian _knew_ the passage to the Batcave was hidden away). “I can keep up.”

“I said, no.”

“Tt.” Damian hissed as his father pushed past him. “I didn’t come here to be ignored!”

He’d come here to be _better_ , to nurture the small grain of humanity buried deep within his heart. He wanted to be a hero, like his father, a shadow who pursued vengeance against the darkness, and stood up for the weak. It was in his blood, just as much as the killing, and the murder, and the death.

“Maybe another night.” Bruce relented, but Damian could tell that the promise was hollow. A more naive child might cling to such platitudes, but he wasn’t foolish.

If his father had his way, he would never run the night.

He would have to take matters into his own hands.

 

* * *

 

A month later, his chance finally came. Batman was called up to the Watchtower, leaving Damian all alone in the manor...which was nothing new. However...this time would be different.

Opening the heavy oak chest at the foot of his bed, the boy pulled out handfuls of sweaters and slacks, throwing them haphazardly to the ground. What he was looking for was hidden in the bottom, beneath a secret panel he’d fashioned while his father wasn’t paying attention. Pulling the panel aside, he grabbed fistfuls of heavy black kevlar, spandex, and mesh, wading through it until he found the symbol printed on the center of the chest.

The bat. His birthright.

It had been the last gift he’d received from his mother, a small box hidden away with the few things he had taken from the palace. Tailored to fit his small frame, Damian slipped the uniform on, discarding the cowl and cape in place of a simple domino mask. He wasn’t used to fighting with the extra weight on his back, and the cowl itself acted as a blindspot. While it was no trouble for Bruce Wayne, Damian didn’t want to risk slipping up on his first night out. He’d play it safe...and prove to his father what he could do.

 

The Penguin was causing some trouble down at the docks, and Damian wasted no time in dispensing him and his goons. The weapons in his belt came easily to him. A batarang here. A smoke bomb there. It was nearly second nature, and he had all the baddies tied up in no time. He stuck around to watch the cops cart the thugs away, grinning madly to himself as the adrenaline pumped through his veins. What a rush! Absently, he wiped the blood from his knuckles, hoping that his father wouldn’t notice...

Next, he found himself in the heart of the city, swinging between Gotham’s looming skyscrapers with ease, landing lightly on the tips of his toes, before sprinting madly across the expanses of sheet metal and brick. There was no feeling like flying, like spreading his wings and swinging above the alleys and the streets, hurling himself into the sky so he could feel the wind in his hair.

It was freedom in its purest form, ambrosia for the soul. There were no walls to hold him in, no untrusting father to tell him no.

He wanted it to last forever...

However...it wasn’t long before the boy realized that he was being followed. Whoever it was capable of mirroring his every move, tackling the skyline like they’d been born in the air; like they could soar on silent wings.

Was it his father?

No. It wasn’t. This figure didn’t fly with a cape. This figure had glowing orange eyes, inhumanly round and open. They landed on the edge of the roof with ease, instantly slipping sharp throwing knives into each clawed hand.

This figure...was an owl.

 

_**Beware the Court of Owls,** _

_**that watches all the time,** _

_**ruling Gotham from a shadow perch,** _

_**behind granite and lime...** _

 

“ _That’s just a child’s tale, Mother.”_ _Damian huffed as he lay in bed, flushed with fever. There was a wicked flu flying through the sands, and he had somehow managed to catch it on the eve of his 7th birthday. Of course._

“ _As is your father, to some.” Talia replied, resting a damp cloth on his forehead._

“ _But, I asked you to tell me about Father.” The boy continued. “I want to know_ _ **him**_ _.”_

_His mother hummed softly, the haunting tune of the rhyme, as she checked his temperature, and the rate of his heartbeat._

“ _Gotham is unlike any city you’ve ever known.” She whispered. “Before you can know him...you must know_ _ **her**_ **...”**

 

_**They watch you at your hearth,** _

_**they watch you in your bed,** _

_**speak not a whispered word of them,** _

_**or they’ll send the Talon for your head...** _

 

Gritting his teeth, Damian landed on the roof of Wayne Tower, slipping a batarang between his fingers as he prepared to stand his ground.

The owl was tall and lithe, every step purposeful and guarded as he calmly approached, the knives held in his claws glinting dangerously off the moonlight.

“I was looking for the Batman.” The man shouted. “I did not expect to find his...pup?”

Damian growled, bracing himself and raising his fists.

“My age makes no difference.” He hissed. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He found himself longing to hold one of the blades strapped tightly to his enemy’s back, to face off against the man in a long bloody duel until only one was left standing. A part of him yearned to put his grandfather's training to good use, to see the satisfying sight of cold steel cutting into delicate flesh..

But no. He couldn't be that person anymore...the assassin he was born to become. No.

Tonight...he was a bat.

Damian forced the memories away, concentrating on the here and now. _Here_ he was faced with an enemy; one who _hadn_ 't been in his father's archives. Dressed in heavy armor of leather, tin and bronze, eyes hidden by goggles of thick glass, he was a cruel perversion of the wisest of the animal kingdom, a warrior light on his feet and skilled with the blade.

The owl-man chuckled, but didn't relax his stance, muscles coiled beneath layers of ancient armor.

“Why would I underestimate you?” He asked. “Unless, you are a pretender? I know that children are some of the most dangerous things. Especially those with broken minds.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my mind!” Damian shouted, hurling a batarang at his foe. The owl was a blur of motion as he flipped out of the way, springing and somersaulting until he was close enough to strike out with a heavy kick. Damian managed to duck just in time, countering his attacker’s suddenly lashing fists. The owl’s gauntlets were spiked, weapons in their own right, and the boy cringed as he felt them slice deep into his skin. He continued on, refusing to let something as simple as a flesh wound keep him down. He’d suffered through much more at the hands of his own _mother_. This? This was nothing. This was a training session with the ninja. This was cutting himself as he polished his knives. This was a trial, a test.

And he _would_ win.

His opponent was an acrobat; agile and full of grace, despite the burden of his heavy armor. His blows came hard and fast, using the knives clutched between his fingers at close range, slicing, cutting, aiming relentlessly for the throat and the face and the _eyes_. Damian snarled, throwing his weight at the man, sending them both crashing to the concrete rooftop. In a move of desperation, the boy seized the hilt of his enemy’s hidden blade, pulling it free, resting its sharp edge across the owl’s throat.

“Who are you?” Damian demanded. “Why are you looking for Batman?”

The owl stilled, emotionless beneath his heavy cowl.

“I am the Talon, servant of the Court of Owls...And they have sentenced the Batman to die.”

Damian tensed, holding the sword in a white-knuckled grip. His father...someone had put a hit out on his father...How could he just...let this man go, knowing that his mission was to kill–

The boy yanked off Talon’s cowl, revealing his face to the night air. The man beneath took in a deep breath, blinking broken blue eyes as he gazed up at the moon through sweat-dampened black hair. Silver scars stood out on his already too-pale skin. A chunk of his left cheek was mottled and dark, the remains of a serious burn wound.

“You’re not a bat.” Talon murmured, dropping his knives to the roof below with an echoing clatter. “You’re a bird...just like me. Birds are great at killing...especially owls.”

“Shut up.” Damian hissed, the sword shaking in his grasp.

“I wanted to be a bat too, once. But, I’m just not.”

“I said shut up!

He wanted to lower the blade and slice into tender flesh; to coat his hands with sticky red. He wanted to watch the life drain from his enemy’s eyes, to watch his scarred mouth go slack forever, so he couldn’t say anything ever again.

_Not a bat?_ He was born to be a bat, he was–

...

But, a bat wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood. A bat wouldn’t even _touch_ a sword. A bat would handle things with his fists. A bat would break bones, and knock skulls, but a bat would _never_ take a life. If his father ever found out...

Damian threw the sword aside, his fists pummeling his enemy’s face, again and again and again. Talon shot to life once more, effortlessly flipping their positions, seizing a handful of Damian’s hair, and cracking his skull mercilessly against the ground.

He saw stars.

“I don’t feel pain.” The man hissed, blood pouring from a broken nose and split lip. Drops flecked Damian’s uniform, dark and permanent.

Then, there were hands wrapping around his throat, pulling tighter and tighter and tighter. Damian let out a weak whimper–a sound he would have been ashamed of making if he could think straight–struggling weakly, trying to fend off the darkness threatening to fall.

He couldn’t let it end like this...he couldn’t. Not before he could redeem himself in the eyes of his father...not before he could wipe his slate clean, and start anew.

No.

He _wouldn’t_ let it end here.

Scrabbling around for his belt, Damian found what he was looking for–a small remote hidden away in one pouch–and pressed a button, praying that he had the strength to hold on just a little bit longer. He clawed at Talon’s wrists, knowing all too well how futile it was. He could see it in the young man’s eyes; the madness, the insanity; a soul pushed past its limits and shattered into irreparable fragments.

“I’m not a bat.” Talon repeated, his voice thick with venom. “And neither are you...”

Everything went dark.

 


End file.
